


nothing but the tide

by drazet



Category: Pacific Rim (2013), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek is a grump, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Stiles is a cadet, Stiles still thinks hes hot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-24 10:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drazet/pseuds/drazet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles Stilinski is incapable of drift compatibility. Derek Hale is incapable of smiling. They fix that. </p><p>Or, the one where they save the world and fall in love (but not necessarily in that order).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, this is [Jordan](malctucker.tumblr.com) here to upload this fic for Lei because she is currently on vacation! She worked very hard on this and in my opinion it is very good so I hope you like it!!! I beta'd so any mistakes are my fault. Please enjoy!

Living in the Shatterdome isn’t at all like Stiles had imagined it. When Marshall Chris Argent, head of the Jaeger program and world-renowned Ranger, had flown to dinky Beacon Hills to recruit Stiles as a potential Jaeger pilot, Stiles had imagined beautiful girls from all across the globe, exciting adventures every day, and instant rock-star status and mass adoration. Turns out, life under Argent’s watchful eye is a just a bunch of heavy lifting.

 _Literal heavy lifting_ , Stiles thinks ruefully, rubbing his aching back as he plops down next to bunkmate and fellow pilot-in-training Scott.

“Remind me again why we have to lug broken Jaeger parts out to the trash heap every day,” Stiles says, picking unenthusiastically at the mush on his plate. Canteen food is never great, especially on busy days like this one. The cafeteria is so full most have to sit on the floor to eat lunch. Stiles is pretty sure they’ve exceeded the room’s maximum occupant limit by at least 20 people. He debates sending a memo to the Shatterdome’s HR department, but figures they’d just ignore it like all the others. (Little things like building code violations tend to matter less when the world is literally being attacked by giant alien sea monsters.)

“Because Finstock says manual labor builds character. And also we’re really short staffed.” says Isaac, deftly sliding into the seat across from Stiles. Scott nods his agreement while inhaling what could have been spaghetti in another life.

“Damn budget cuts,” Stiles grumbles into his juicebox. “I bet Finstock wants to punish Greenberg for breaking the simulator again. He’s just making us move stuff too so it doesn’t look like he’s playing favorites.”

“Probably,” Isaac agrees amiably. His long legs stretch out under the table as he surveys the crowded cafeteria. “Did you hear? Marshall Argent’s daughter is getting air-lifted in. Apparently there’s some new scientist who wants to take a crack at closing the breach.”

“Allison’s coming back today?” Stiles asks, giving up on his lunch and drawing lines in his mashed potatoes with the juicebox straw.

Isaac glares at him. “You can be a real idiot sometimes.”

“What? Why?” Stiles demands.

“He only brought it up because you were supposed to be receiving them at the helipad now,” Scott says helpfully, stacking empty plates and bowls on his tray.

Stiles checks his watch. “Shit! I totally forgot!” Stiles says, frantically piling his rejected lunch on his own tray.

“We know,” says Isaac, bemused. “We’ll get your stuff. Go get ‘em, tiger.”

“You guys are the worst friends ever,” Stiles moans as he runs out of the cafeteria.

~

Stiles does, somehow, make it to the helipad before the giant helicopter touches down. He’s there juggling three closed umbrellas and getting absolutely drenched in the process when Marshall Argent strides over under an umbrella of his own.

“Hey there,” Stiles says weakly. Argent looks annoyed, but his eyes are crinkled up in the corners like he’s trying not to laugh so Stiles figures he’s not in that much trouble.

“You’re late,” Argent finally remarks, looking firmly at the approaching helicopter.

“I’ve had a lot on my mind?” Stiles offers up. This is true, technically. Stiles has been stressed about the upcoming Drift-compatibility tests. He’s been in the training program for the longest of anyone at the Hong Kong Shatterdome at just under five years, and Stiles is getting desperate to find a partner.

But Stiles knows Argent would never accept that as an excuse. Luckily, the helicopter chooses this moment to land and Stiles is saved by the metaphorical bell.

The helicopter door slides open and Stiles is there immediately, holding an umbrella up for the first person out.

“Hi! I’m Stiles. Welcome to Hong Kong…” he says, trailing off as he gazes into the piercing eyes of a beautiful woman.

“You can call me Dr. Martin,” the fiery-haired scientist says curtly, placing a heavy bag into Stiles’s outstretched hand. “My assistant Jackson needs help with the rest of my bags,” she says, taking Stiles’s umbrella as she glides away, sandy-haired assistant straggling after her.

“Who was that?” Stiles dreamily asks Allison, who takes an umbrella from Stiles’s limp hand.

“Lydia Martin, our new in-house genius. The U.S. government flew her here as a last-ditch effort. If she can’t close the portal, no one can. Nice to see you too, by the way,” Allison says.

“I think I’m in love,” Stiles replies. Allison laughs and walks off with her father.

Stiles hears a low growl emanate from the helicopter. A tall, muscular man pushes past Stiles and stalks after the other passengers.

“Who was that?” Stiles asks irately to the empty air. He’s pretty sure he’ll have bruises later from where that surly he-man bumped into him. Then Stiles realizes Grumpypants stole his last umbrella and he’s getting soaked in the rain again.

“That’s just great,” Stiles mutters as he runs back to the Shatterdome.

~

Derek really, really does not want to be here. He made that abundantly clear to Argent when the Marshall first showed up to his construction site three months ago. After he lost Laura and a good two-thirds of the Hale Wraith to a Category-3 Kaiju five years ago, Derek had sworn off Jaegers forever. Derek still has scars from where the Kaiju’s claws had broken through his drivesuit and can feel the gaping hole in his mind where Laura had been moments before she was brutally ripped away, severing their mental link and abandoning Derek in the Drift. Derek wasn’t even sure he could Drift anymore or if his mind was too broken to try.

But Chris Argent was a persistent man and Derek had finally relented to return to the Shatterdome on the condition that he wouldn’t be forced into Drifting with anyone he didn’t agree to. This is a decision that he is seriously regretting now, crammed into the tiny elevator with the scientists and Rangers. He isn’t a Ranger anymore. He shouldn’t be here.

Derek swallows down his panic as he feels a hand on his shoulder. He schools his features into a careful mask of indifference and annoyance before turning to face Marshall Argent, who is now studying Derek with a sympathetic expression. Derek wants to punch that look off Argent’s face.

“I can show you to the barracks now unless you want to see the Jaegers first,” he says.

“Barracks,” Derek grunts. He doesn’t want to see a Jaeger now or ever. He doesn’t want to be here.

They walk in silence through the subterranean halls of the Shatterdome. Derek pointedly ignores the curious stares of trainees and mechanics and Argent, thankfully, doesn’t pause to talk with any of them. He stops in front of a nondescript green door and unlocks it with a metal key.

“This is yours,” Argent says, pressing the key into Derek’s palm. “Compatibility tests are tomorrow. You have full run of the facilities until then.”

Derek nods, then turns to enter his room.

“Derek.”

The two regard each other in stony silence. Argent looks as if he wants to say something further, but thinks better of it.

“Welcome home,” Argent says finally.

Derek slams the door in his face.

~

Against his better judgment, Derek does go to see the Jaegers the following morning. Years of work in construction has made Derek an obsessively early riser, a habit he is extremely grateful for now as he walks uninterrupted to the Jaeger hangars. Derek knows Hong Kong has five Jaegers in total. He counts them off as he passes them.

The Lunar Goddess, a Mark-3 used by the longest-living pilots in the PPDC, Kali and Ennis. He remembered they had just started out before Laura was killed.

The Gemini Omega, a Mark-4 piloted by identical twins.

The Rebel Biter, an ancient but sturdy Mark-1 exhumed and given to two fresh-faced pilots barely out of training. Derek thinks it’s ironic the oldest Jaeger was given to the youngest team, but considering how young most Jaeger pilots tend to die, Derek’s really not surprised.

He passes the brand-new Mark-5, the first and only of its kind in the world. It hasn’t been painted or named yet, but Derek hears it’s the fastest Jaeger ever built. He idly wonders who the unlucky souls are that will pilot it.

Derek stops at the edge of the long row of Jaegers. The thing at the end is a twisted, hulking heap of metal, barely recognizable as a Jaeger. Derek would recognize it anywhere.

“Son of a bitch,” Derek says under his breath. It is the Hale Wraith, Laura and Derek’s own Mark-3.

The Jaeger is obviously still in the process of being repaired. Derek thinks the mechanics did well given the damage. As he gets closer, Derek sees familiar old details that make his chest tighten – claw marks on the left leg from their first Kaiju, rust stains on the knee joints from the Pacific’s harsh waves, a faded red triskelion on the chest plate. There are new additions too, Derek notes with an unexpected surge of emotion. He can tell where they’ve upgraded the weapons in accordance with the latest technology. (Derek hopes they’ve reinforced the Wraith’s viewport. The Kaiju had smashed through the glass like it was nothing and Derek almost froze to death from the cold Pacific winds as he piloted the Jaeger to safety.)

“She’s a real beauty, isn’t she?” says a voice from behind Derek. He spins around and sees the cadet from the helipad. He’s wearing a full drivesuit and sweating like a pig, so he must have just finished a piloting sim. “She’s classic Mark-3 that Argent fished out of the ocean a couple months back. They did a real good job restoring her.”

“She’s alright,” Derek admits.

“I’m Stiles, by the way,” the cadet says. “Aren’t you one of the new scientists?”

Derek frowns. “I’m here to help close the portal,” he says carefully. If the cadets don’t know who he is, Derek wouldn’t mind keeping it that way.

“I’m going to be a pilot,” Stiles says, helpfully gesturing towards his piloting uniform.

“Good for you,” Derek says shortly as he turns to walk away.

“Hey, wait!” Stiles blocks Derek’s path. Derek glares at him.

“Closing the rift,” Stiles says, seemingly unaffected by Derek’s obvious anger. “Can it really be done?”

It’s impossible, Derek thinks. A suicide mission. “Maybe,” he says and quickly walks away before the cadet can ask any more questions.

~

The water is freezing when Stiles gets into the shower. Stiles hates cold showers, but five minutes of shivering every morning is worth having extra time with the Jaeger simulators. Early morning is the only time he can have the sim pods to himself and Stiles wants all the practice he can get with the Drift compatibility trials coming up.

Stiles has the best record of any cadet in Hong Kong – 51 drops and 51 kills – but there’s no guarantee he’ll find a partner after four years of failed attempts. Even if, by some miracle, Stiles finds a co-pilot, budget cuts have hit the PPDC hard. Jaegers are unbelievably expensive to maintain, let alone create, and some countries are pulling funding from the program in favor of building a giant wall around Pacific coasts. The “Wall of Life” sounds stupid to Stiles, especially considering how the Shatterdome only got two new Jaegers instead of the projected five. With over fifty recruits competing for a mere four slots, Stiles has no illusions that he’ll get picked. Still, Stiles likes to think he’s a pretty strong candidate.

The rest of his roommates are awake and getting ready when Stiles gets out of the shower. Isaac looks like he might cry and Scott’s face is a particularly worrying shade of grey. It’s their first year of Drift compatibility tests and they have no idea who their partners will be. Only Boyd, Stiles’s fourth roommate, looks serene. Boyd has been in the program with Stiles for almost three years. He found his partner, Erica, on the very first day. They call their rust-bucket of a Jaeger their “kaiju-killing baby,” which Stiles would think was cute if he weren’t so damn jealous.

“You guys ready?” Boyd asks.

“Ready as we’ll ever be,” says Stiles.

~

The compatibility tests go about as well as Stiles had expected. Stiles passes Argent’s exam with flying colors (just like the last four years) but wasn’t Drift-compatible with anyone (also just like the last four years).

Scott and Isaac pass, too. Stiles is surprised when they’re partnered together, but he understands when he sees them fight - it’s almost like watching twins. Scary, intense twins beating the crap out of each other with lethal precision, but twins nonetheless.

Stiles sighs. “It’s not fair,” he complains to Allison. They’re watching the rest of the cadets spar from the catwalk above the Kwoon room. “Scott and Isaac are freaking Romeo and Juliet and I’m over here. Alone. Again.”

“You’ve always got me,” she says optimistically. He gives her the world-famous Stillinski stinkeye.

“Scott and Isaac are a definite and there’s three other potential matches. I’m never getting in a Jaeger,” Stiles says mournfully.

“Who’s that?” Allison asks, trying to change the subject.

“Where?” Stiles replies, scanning the rows of cadets below.

“The mean-looking guy next to my dad,” Allison says. She points to the surly scientist Stiles met earlier, lurking in a corner behind Marshall Argent.

“I think he works for Dr. Martin,” Stiles says.

“I don’t think so,” replies Allison.

“Why do you think that?”

“Because he’s about to spar with Greenberg,” says Allison.

Huh. Ok. Maybe Grumpypants isn’t a scientist after all. Stiles watches the man as he stretches against the wall. He’s pointedly ignoring Greenberg’s pathetic attempts to engage him in conversation.

“He’s kind of old,” Allison remarks.

“He’s kind of hot,” Stiles shoots back.

“Touché.”

He walks out into the center of the mats, silent and completely still. Greenberg looks flustered already. He feints left, but the man doesn’t react. Greenberg lashes out at the man’s head, but at the last second he swings his staff around and trips Greenberg at the knees. Greenberg tries to swipe at him from the floor but the man blocks him and rips Greenberg’s bo clean out of his hand.

They all clap politely and Stiles noisily wolf-whistles at the back of the man’s head. He twitches visibly.

“Next,” he growls.

Allison is staring at Stiles when he turns back to her.

“What?” Stiles asks guiltily. “He’s hot.”

Allison just sighs.

It goes on like this for another twenty minutes. A cadet tries to attack and the man knocks them on their ass in under five miutes. Stiles continues to cat-call the man progressively louder each time, but he doesn’t react after the first time.

Finally, after a particularly deafening whistle from Stiles, the man slowly turns to face the catwalk.

“Which one of you is doing that,” he spits out. It doesn’t sound like a question, more like a death threat.

“Um,” Stiles says intelligently. They make eye contact and Stiles is sure the man is trying to make Stiles explode through sheer force of will.

“Get down here. Now,” he enunciates.

Stiles groans. It’s not like this day has been embarrassing enough already or anything. Now Stiles is going to get his ass handed to him by some broody, hot mystery man who will probably add insult to injury by dancing on his grave. Fate must hate Stiles.

Stiles drags himself down the stairs. Argent looks like he’s about to have an aneurism. Allison is laughing into her hand back up on the catwalk. Stiles really hates his life sometimes.

“Pick up the staff,” the man says through gritted teeth. Up close, Stiles thinks he looks vaguely constipated.

Stiles picks the bo up off the floor, twirling it lightly between his hands. He takes a deep breath. So far, Grumpypants has kept movement to a bare minimum, striking only when attacked with brutal intensity and speed. He’s not a show-off like most cadets are, preferring to end a fight as quickly as possible instead of prolonging it to show his skill. From that, Stiles can tell he’s had a history of fighting, probably from a military family, though the restriction of his movements suggest he’s holding back.

Stiles can work with that.

He slowly circles the man, who doesn’t move. A small, distant part of Stiles’s brain notes the dude’s fine, fine ass. The man is standing rigidly, feet shoulder-width, and clenches the bo with both hands like a baseball bat.

Stiles slides into ready position, bo out in front of him like a kendo stick.

“I’m not going to hold back on you,” Stiles declares. He’s rather proud his voice doesn’t quiver.

The man raises an eyebrow and moves to match Stiles. Seriously, do his _muscles_ have muscles?

Stiles takes a deep breath. He stabs forward, but the man’s staff slides around and whacks him hard on his shoulder.

“1 – 0,” he grunts. They shift back to opposite ends of the mat.

This time, it’s the man who attacks first. He whips his bo at Stiles’s head but Stiles manages to duck just in time. Their staffs lock together as they shove against each other.

Stiles hooks his foot around the man’s ankle and pulls hard. The man falls on his back and Stiles’s bo is at the man’s throat before he can recover.

“1 – 1,” Stiles huffs gleefully.

The man smoothly rolls off the floor but Stiles leaves no time for him to recover. He lunges, staff over head, but before he can land his strike the man bludgeons him hard in the ribs.

Stiles falls to his side then rolls back up, blocking the man’s next strike before it can land on his face. He desperately slides his bo between the man’s staff and chest and _twists_ —

And suddenly the man’s staff clatters to the ground.

“I won,” Stiles pants, amazed at himself.

“Not quite,” he growls. Stiles looks down. The man’s hands, fingers spread wide, hold Stiles’s sides in a bruising grip. If they were in a Jaeger, the man would have crushed his ribs.

“Enough!” Argent bellows. He’s livid, turning red with anger. The man drags Stiles to the Marshall, staffs forgotten on the floor.

Stiles is officially going to die. Argent is going to kill him, if this mystery man doesn’t beat him to it. Speaking of Grumpypants, Stiles turns to look at his intensely-scowling face. Stiles squirms in the older man’s iron grasp on his bicep.

“I’ve seen enough—” Argent starts.

“So have I,” the man snarls. Stiles stares at him, amazed. No one interrupts Argent when he’s pissed, not if they want to live.

To his utter amazement, Argent takes a deep breath and motions for the other man to continue. Who the hell is this guy anyway?

“He’s my co-pilot,” Grumpypants says gruffly. Um, what?

Stiles opens his mouth to ask about a billion questions, but Argent beats him to the punch.

“No. Absolutely not.”

“But—” Stiles and the man chorus in unison.

Argent cuts them off again. “I said enough! You will be notified tomorrow on your assigned co-pilot. Cadet Stilinski, Ranger Hale, you are dismissed.” Argent’s tone leaves no room for argument. Stiles salutes miserably at the Marshall’s rapidly retreating back.

The man finally releases his death grip on Stiles’s arm. Finally processing Argent’s words, something in Stiles’s mind clicks.

“You’re Derek Hale!” Stiles practically shouts.

Hale glares at him, then quickly strides away after Argent.

“What the hell was that about?” Allison asks, rejoining Stiles at last. Together they watch the Marshall and Hale disappear down the hall.

“You know, I’m not really sure.”

~

Derek is officially furious. Stiles is his copilot, Derek is absolutely certain. Even from such a short fight, Derek can tell he and Stiles fit together, two pieces of a puzzle, like no one else alive.

So why the hell is Argent stopping them?

“Argent!” Derek calls, but the Marshall doesn’t stop. Derek walks faster, trying to catch up.

“Argent,” he barks again, reaching out and snagging the man’s shoulder.

Argent whirls around and catches Derek’s hand. Derek winces from Argent’s vice-like grip.

“Don’t you ever touch me again,” Argent growls. The ‘or I’ll break your fingers' is left unsaid, but the way Argent is crushing Derek’s hand makes the Marshall’s message painfully clear.

Derek grunts noncommittally and pulls his hand away. He flexes it behind his back to make sure nothing is dislocated; thankfully, the Marshall doesn’t seem to notice.

“Stiles is my copilot,” Derek says. “You said I could have my pick of the cadets.”

“Pick another one,” Argent snaps and turns again to leave.

“He’s the only one, Argent. You saw that!”

“I said no!” Argent roars. Derek is stunned – he’d never seen Argent lose his temper like this. But Derek can’t afford to lose Stiles, not after he’d just found him. It would be like Laura dying all over again.

“Why not? He’s the best cadet in the program! You saw the way he fought,” Derek tries.

“Stiles isn’t suited for the Jaeger program. He’s not for the likes of you,” Argent says lowly.

Derek hesitates. Something about the way Argent is holding himself, almost defensively, seems off.

“Is this about protecting Stiles from the Jaeger program or protecting him from me?” Derek asks cautiously.

Derek must have struck a nerve – Argent deflates like a balloon.

“Not here,” says Argent softly, moving away again. This time, Derek can tell he’s expected to follow.

Argent leads them into the Marshall’s personal quarters and immediately goes to the window. After a slight pause, Derek joins him there.

It’s a beautiful view – the sun is setting, painting the sky and ocean vivid shades of rose and tangerine and bathing the room in scarlet light. Derek can see the Hong Kong skyline glittering in the distance. It’s so soothing, tranquil even, that Derek is surprised when the Marshal speaks again.

“Stiles joined the Jaeger program five years ago, just after Laura died,” Argent begins. “Wanted to be a ‘dome technician. He would have been a damn good one too. But all that changed after John died.”

Derek glances at Argent. The Marshall is staring resolutely out the window, eyes fixed on a distant memory.

“John?” Derek probes gently. The story of the Guardian Silver is well known – a Category-3 Kaiju smashed through Manila and three separate Jaegers until stopped by one lonesome team. One pilot died; the other was promoted to Marshall.

“John Stilinski. My partner. And Stiles’s father.”

Suddenly, Derek frowns. “What kind of name is Stiles Stilinski?”

Argent looks over sharply as if he’d forgotten Derek’s presence. “It’s a nickname. If you heard Stiles’s real name, you’d understand.”

“But what does that have to do with me?” Derek presses on.

Argent’s face hardens. “John and Claudia were two of my closest friends. Stiles is my godson, Derek, and after that business with your uncle—”

“Peter was a bastard and I’m glad he’s dead,” Derek fervently interrupts. “I know you two were close, but I’m not him,” he says honestly.

Argent gives Derek a long, speculating look. Derek tries not to bristle under Argent’s unnerving gaze.

“No, you’re not,” he eventually says.

“So now what?” Derek asks hopefully.

“Now I go help the technicians and pay the bills and do the million other things there are to do around this damn Dome,” Argent says, starting for the door.

“What about us?” asks Derek desperately. He’s aware how pathetic he must sound, practically begging, but Derek doesn’t care. Not when he’s this close.

Argent doesn’t respond before striding out of the room, leaving Derek alone with only the blood-red waves and deafening silence to comfort him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Lei here. Thank you to everyone who's left kudos/subscribed/commented so far!!! Also, special thanks to my fabulous beta [Jordan](malctucker.tumblr.com), without whom this chapter would not exist.

Derek isn’t surprised to see Stiles waiting outside Argent’s door like a lost puppy. He’s even less surprised, if a little annoyed, by the torrent of questions Stiles unleashes the second Derek crosses the threshold. 

“What did Argent say? Are we partners now? When do we get a Jaeger? What—” 

Derek holds up his hand, thankfully halting Stiles’s verbal attack.

“Argent doesn’t want you in a Jaeger. I don’t know what’s going to happen next,” he admits to the cadet’s pleading eyes. God, his eyes are big. And melty brown. And chock-full of some strong emotion Derek really doesn’t want to think about right now. 

“I should go,” he says awkwardly, sensing Stiles’s distress. Derek hastily retreats down the hall, trying to outpace the cadet. Stiles resolutely dogs his footsteps, though, and starts his barrage of questions again.

“What were you and Argent talking about in there, then?”

“Nothing,” Derek grunts as he rounds the corner.

“Did it have to do with your uncle?” Stiles guesses. 

Derek stops dead in his tracks. Stiles bumps into Derek’s back and nervously laughs when Derek grabs his lapels and slams him into the wall.

“I am not my uncle,” Derek says. Then he pauses. “How do you know about Peter anyway? Isn’t that classified?”

“I’m good at putting things together,” Stiles says, twitching wildly. “Being the Marshall’s adoptive son helps, though. Plus Hale isn’t exactly a common name.”

Derek is sort of impressed in spite of himself. He’d personally ensured Peter’s name and reputation were buried as thoroughly as possible after his uncle’s death. Laura had agreed it was best for everyone that Peter Hale disappeared.

“Hale is a very common name,” he says mildly, backing off Stiles and smoothing the wrinkles his fists had made in Stiles’s jacket. 

“Not in the PPDC,” Stiles counters. “There’s only been Peter, you, and…” he falters, very clearly trying to avoid mention Laura. Derek appreciates his tact – not that it does the cadet much good.

Derek finally reaches his door and searches his pockets for the key. He shoves the unmoving door with an exasperated sigh. Derek Hale’s terrible luck strikes again.

He hears a cough behind him. 

“You do know that’s my door, right?” Stiles asks.

Actually, he hadn’t. 

“Sorry,” Derek mutters and goes to unlock his actual room.

Stiles just laughs. “Goodnight, Derek,” he says as Derek slams the door behind him.

~

The next morning dawns painfully bright and early. Stiles had been forced to celebrate with the rest of the cadets for the annual post-exam bash. No alcohol, regrettably – PPDC members, especially pilot candidates, aren’t allowed anything that would impair their judgment in case of a Kaiju attack – but the previous evening’s festivities had included enough pounding music, flashing lights, and Kaiju bone meal to make the morning uncomfortable. (Not that Stiles would partake, of course – Argent might literally kill him if he found out.) 

Stiles gingerly rolls over from where he’d been sprawled on the floor. Scott and Isaac lie tangled together on Scott’s bed, still snoring peacefully. There’s neither hide nor hair of Boyd to be found but Stiles has a sneaking suspicious it’s Boyd’s boxers that are dangling off the ceiling fan. He hopes he and Erica had a good night, at least. 

“Hey, dude. Wake up,” Stiles says, dragging himself into a vertical position. When this fails to elicit a response from either roommate, Stiles throws a pillow at them. It lands squarely on Scott’s face.

“Mrmph,” he hears from Scott’s general direction.

“Jaeger assignments today. Also, I want breakfast,” says Stiles as he dresses.

“Five more minutes,” Scott groans as he settles back onto Isaac’s chest.

“Suit yourself,” Stiles shrugs.

The halls are mostly empty save the odd straggler making their way back to their room after a long night of partying. The mess is also, thankfully, abandoned and Stiles manages to snag a whole table for himself. He’s a little disappointed to see that the cafeteria is Derek-free. The older ranger hadn’t been at last night’s party, either. Stiles is starting to believe Derek is more than a little antisocial. What a sour ranger.

He’s contemplating eating the not-oatmeal sludge occupying the majority of his tray when he hears someone clearing their throat. Doctor Lydia Martin sits in front of Stiles, dressed immaculately in a summer dress and a lab coat.

“Hello,” she says.

“Hi?” Stiles tentatively replies, fighting the urge to look around and see who she’s really talking to.

“You’re going to be assigned to the Hale Wraith with Ranger Hale,” Lydia says, straight to the point.

Stiles sighs. “I wish. Listen, Doctor Martin—” 

“Lydia, please,” she interrupts, giving Stiles a smile far too full of teeth to feel like anything but a threat. 

“Lydia,” Stiles continues as she nods approvingly. “I’m not getting the Wraith. You weren’t in the Kwoon yesterday, but Argent was very clear that I’m not even a candidate.”

“For your information, I was watching from the LOCCENT,” she says primly. “You and Hale were Drift-compatible. In fact, you were the only qualified cadet there. When Marshall Argent gives out Jaeger designations, you will be assigned to the Hale Wraith.”

“That’s nice?” Stiles asks faintly. “Still not seeing the point, though.”

“I’m just letting you know I’ve made a few special modifications to the Wraith that I want you to use. You’ll know them once you get plugged in.”

“What are they?”

“You’ll see,” she says.

“What do they do?”

“You’ll see,” Lydia enunciates with a smirk. 

Stiles starts to feel the familiar burn of anger swirl in the depths of his stomach.

 _Is she mocking me?_ He wonders. 

Lydia’s clearly still expecting an answer, tapping her cherry-red nails on the thin metal of Stiles’s tray. 

“Ok, Lydia. When I somehow get my impossible posting, I’ll definitely use your illegal Jaeger mods that’ll probably do some dangerous unknown thing. I’ll put that on the top of my to-do list,” Stiles snaps back, too annoyed to be polite.

Lydia flashes him that scary smile again. “Excellent. See you then.”

“Hold on!” Stiles says before she can leave. “Why me? Why the Wraith?”

She considers his question for a moment. “Because Allison Argent thinks highly of you and I happen to think highly of her,” Lydia replies more honestly that Stiles was expecting. “Now hop to, Stiles, or you’re going to be late.”

 ~

Scott and Isaac are already lined up behind the rest of the cadets when Stiles skids into the hanger. Scott squints at him inquisitively.

“Got held up. Tell you later,” Stiles pants as Argent stands to address the group.

“Today is the day you’ve all been waiting for this past year,” Argent begins meaningfully. 

Stiles closes his eyes and lets Argent’s words spill around him. He’s heard similar variations of this for the past couple years now, but it’s still nice to hear Argent’s calm, commanding voice.

“I remember how nervous I was when I was standing where you are now, so I’ll be brief. I wish I could give each and every single one of you brave and strong-willed young people Jaegers. If everyone on the planet fought as hard and as passionately as you, I don’t think those damn Kaiju would even bother to show their ugly asses on our planet anymore.” 

Argent stops briefly to clear his throat. His face takes on that worrying pinched look that’s become uncomfortably prevalent over the last few months.

“Unfortunately, the lack of funds limits the fight, and we’re forced to pick only a few. Do not think this makes you any lesser. The fact that you are standing here today, ready to put your life on the line, into danger, for the sake of the world and all the people in it, already makes you a hero. You are no less a hero than those in the field, and your services will not be forgotten by time, this, we can assure you. I could go on about the valor of the lion-hearted young all day, but I did say brief.”

Here Argent pauses, uncurls himself from where he’s begun to droop over the podium. “Cadet McCall. Cadet Lahey.” 

He feels his friends straighten by his side. 

“You are assigned to the new Mark-5 Jaeger, codenamed the Wolfsbane Soldier. Congratulations.”

The area around Stiles bursts into thunderous applause as his friends make their way to Argent. 

“Ranger Hale,” Argent begins as the cadets settle back down. “You have been reassigned to the Hale Wraith.” He sucks in a quick breath. “With Cadet Stilinski.”

The room grows so quiet Stiles can hear the distant crash of the ocean on the hanger doors.

“I totally called it!” Scott exclaims suddenly and the crowd starts to cheer once more.

Stiles starts for the front, cheeks burning. He’s probably grinning like a loon right now, but he’s so happy he can’t even be bothered to care.

Allison is beaming openly, arms linked with a smug-looking Lydia. Isaac and Scott clap so hard their hands turn red. Even Derek looks kind of pleased. (At least, Stiles thinks that scowl means pleased. He could just be hungry, but Stiles is pretty sure, given the context, Derek is happy.)

“I told you so,” Stiles whispers to Derek as he poses by Scott and Isaac. They smile for the press, cameras flashing from every direction.

“No you didn’t,” Derek murmurs into Stiles’s ear. Stiles is man enough to admit Derek’s smooth, low rumble sends chills up his spine. 

“I thought it really loud. That totally counts,” Stiles retorts. 

Derek huffs out a quick laugh and Stiles grins victoriously.

“That’s enough, thank you,” Argent says, shooing away the reporters sourly. Argent’s ostensible hatred of the press is legendary amongst the cadets and his bias is plainly visible today. “It’s time for the field tests now _._ Stilinski, Hale, you’re up first.”

The panic doesn’t set in until he’s in the locker room. Stiles is half into his shiny new Drivesuit when the enormity of what he’s about to do overwhelms him. Stiles is going to get into a Jaeger with a virtual stranger, a person he’s expected to Drift with, fight world-threatening Kaiju with, and, if he’s being perfectly honest, die with. He swallows hard. 

“You okay?” Derek asks. He’s already suited up. 

“Not really,” Stiles gasps, fighting down the beginnings of a panic attack.

Derek plants himself in front of Stiles, boxing him in with his arms. “Look at me. Breathe.”

Stiles shakes his head. Derek sighs, then folds Stilesinto his arms.

Stiles feels warm, chapped lips press softly to his own and his breath catches in his throat. His mind goes blank as Stiles leans into the kiss, pressing himself into Derek’s (hard? firm? sturdy? Stiles can’t decide) body.

It’s over almost as soon as it starts. Stiles protests lightly as Derek pulls away with a faintly bemused expression.

“What was that?” Stiles says slowly, mind reeling.

“I read somewhere that holding your breath could stop a panic attack,” he explains. 

“Oh,” Stiles says. He can’t quite wash away the bitter sense of disappointment. 

“You’re a better kisser than I expected,” Derek jokes. From Derek, that’s practically a ringing endorsement.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Stiles counters happily. Derek just shakes his head.

His sense of euphoria lasts all the way to the loading elevator and into the Wraith. Stiles barely even notices the glares he gets from the Jaeger techs as they connect the helmet to his battle armor.

“Initiating neural handshake in five seconds,” comes Danny’s electronic voice broadcasting from the LOCCENT. 

“Any final words of advice?” Stiles asks. 

“Four,” says Danny.

Derek considers Stiles’s question as the Wraith’s PA system comes to life.

“Three.”

 _The relay gel smells like mango_ , Stiles thinks absently as their helmets fill with the thick orange goo.

“Two." 

“Don’t chase the rabbit,” Derek says finally.

“One,” Danny says, and Stiles’s world disappears.


End file.
